


A Little House by the Sea

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: After the accident, Eames takes Arthur to a little house by the sea and keeps him there.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 139





	A Little House by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by StephG, thank you so much!

It’s only been about five minutes, when Arthur tells Eames to let him go. This happens after Arthur has told Eames to fuck off, which happens after Arthur has asked Eames why the hell he is here, and where exactly ‘here’ is.

The good thing is that Eames has been waiting for these things to happen. He grabs Arthur by the shoulders and pushes him back to the bed. “I’m not going to let you go. You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a _concussion_ ,” Arthur says, “nothing’s happened, I’m fine.”

“And you broke several of your ribs,” Eames says in a steady voice. It’ll drive Arthur mad and let Eames win the argument. “When you fell off the building. And also, you got shot.”

“I didn’t –,” Arthur begins and then grimaces with pain. “ _God._ Did I really –”“

“Yeah,” Eames says. He’s still holding Arthur down by the shoulders. He lets his grip go gentler as Arthur’s breathing gets heavier and he stops struggling. Arthur looks so tiny like this, lying on the bed in his ridiculous suit that’s now been stained with blood. Arthur will be so pissed when he realises that. But for now, Arthur is small and helpless in Eames’ bed, which is exactly where Arthur should be right now. In Eames’ bed. Alive. “God, you’re small.”

“Fucking hell, Eames,” Arthur hisses through his teeth.

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” Eames says and lets go of Arthur’s shoulders. His hands feel empty.

There’re white pills in one of the kitchen cupboards. He takes them and rushes back to the bedroom, to Arthur. Luckily Arthur’s still in bed. It’s so easy to forget that Arthur’s not a big man when he’s standing on his feet, dressed in a suit and holding a gun.

But now Eames isn’t going to forget anymore. Now, he’s going to keep Arthur safe.

“Take these,” he says, and Arthur takes the pills without asking. The bullet wound probably hurts like hell. Arthur drinks the water Eames gives him and then only glares, when Eames wipes the wet corners of his mouth with the back of his fingers.

“Where a’re we?” Arthur asks a minute later. He doesn’t look like he’s in so much pain anymore. He doesn’t look terribly angry, either.

“In a little house by the sea,” Eames says, because that’s the way he always called it.

“What?” Arthur doesn’t look convinced.

“I sometimes came here with my mother when I was a kid. It’s been in the family for some time. But now it’s been empty for years.”

“So,” Arthur says slowly, “we’re in, what, England?”

“Yeah.”

“But we were in Istanbul.”

“Yeah, well, you have a concussion. I brought you here to recover.”

“I don’t remember –“

“You have a concussion,” Eames says, drags a chair next to the bed and sits down. Arthur is so pale now. And his face looks tiny, too. It could break so easily. “Think about it. You got shot in Istanbul after the job we did there. I took you to the plane and got you here.”

“How?” Arthur asks in a weak voice. “How did you get me to the plane? Did you fucking _carry_ me?”

“Sure,” Eames says, because that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? “I carried you. You aren’t very heavy, after all.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, alright,” he says and reaches to stroke Arthur’s forehead, then his hair. Very carefully, of course. Arthur glares at him like he’s fantasising about the many ways how to kill Eames when he’s got back on his feet. Great. Arthur’s going to be alright, then. “Later, though.”

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur says. “What about the job?”

“The job?”

“Did we get it done? Before I got shot?”

“Don’t think about it,” Eames says.

Arthur looks confused for a second, then frustrated. “No, really. Just tell me. We fucked it up, didn’t we?”

Eames takes a deep breath. Well, apparently there’s no way to avoid this. Arthur’s always been so stubborn. He hated that at first, of course. He kind of hated Arthur. Not really, though, it just seemed safer that way. And he was right, wasn’t he? Because now he’s fucking ruined. And he didn’t even tell Arthur that he fucking likes the idiot.

No. _No._ It didn’t go like that. It _didn’t._ And now they’re here, Arthur and he, in a little house where he used to come with his mother. This place always seemed like it was in another world, like no one could find them here.

“Yes,” he tells Arthur, because Arthur’s going to find out anyway. Arthur was always smarter than him. In the beginning, he probably hated that, too. “We fucked up.”

“Are the others…”

“They’re fine.” He doesn’t really know. Arthur probably guesses that but doesn’t say anything.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Arthur says instead. “Someone’s going to come looking for us.”

“No,” Eames says, “well, yeah, but they aren’t going to find us. Not when we’re here.”

Arthur clearly doesn’t believe him.

“Trust me.”

Arthur doesn’t trust him.

“I’m not going to let them kill you,” he tells Arthur, “I’m not, I’m really not. I’ll shoot them in the face. I’ll fucking _burn_ them. I’ll –”“

“Okay, okay,” Arthur says, raises his hand and lets it settle on the crook of Eames’ elbow. Arthur’s touch is light but firm. Eames grabs his hand without thinking. “Eames.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re holding my hand.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” But he doesn’t let go.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you,” Arthur says but doesn’t try to free his hand. “Tell me honestly. Did you carry my body out of there?”

“I carried _you,_ ” Eames says, “ _you_ , you were breathing. You looked dead but you were breathing. I felt it on my neck.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He looks very tired. “I never thought you’d be a romantic.”

“I’m not,” Eames says. “But Arthur, I think… We’ve known each other for a long time and… I know you kind of hate me and the feeling’s mutual, trust me, but I think…”

“Stop talking,” Arthur says. “I never hated you.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to tell you something.” Eames takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking. For a second he thinks the whole house is shaking. “You’re the best person I know. Of course you’re an idiot but you’re also the best. I wouldn’t fucking know how to live without you. I couldn’t do it. I just –”

“Fuck,” Arthur says, looking down on his chest. The bullet wound is bleeding. “Fucking hell, Eames, this looks bad. Did you –“

“I got the bullet out,” Eames says, rushing onto his feet and to the bathroom. “It’s just bleeding. I’ll fix it.”

“You don’t know anything about medicine,” Arthur says, his eyes shut and his voice thick with pain. “You probably know even less than me.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“I’m going to die.”

“No.” It’s good that Eames is still in the bathroom, because otherwise he might hit Arthur in the face and that wouldn’t be good, not with the concussion and all. “No, you aren’t. I’m taking care of that.”

“Eames,” Arthur says in a nice tone that Eames suddenly hates, “listen, it’s not your fault. This feels pretty bad.”

“You aren’t going to die.”

“My head is spinning a little.” Arthur sounds breathless now.

“I’m going to fix you,” Eames says, rushing back. He starts unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt and Arthur doesn’t say anything, only breathes. In and out. That’s good. That’s great. That’s exactly what Arthur was doing when Eames picked him up from the concrete after the fall. Arthur was breathing. “I’m going to wrap your wound. It’ll stop the bleeding.”

“Eames –“

“Come on,” he says, perhaps more at himself than at Arthur. “Come on, come on, it’s just a bullet wound, it was just a fall, barely three floors down.”

“I like you, too,” Arthur says. His eyes don’t seem to remember how to focus anymore.

Eames closes his eyes.

**

“Eames?”

Eames blinks. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” Arthur says. “What’re you doing in my bed?”

“Nothing,” Eames says and shifts a few inches away. It wasn’t like he was trying to cuddle or anything. He’s barely touching Arthur.

“Nothing?” Arthur asks. He still doesn’t trust Eames.

“Trust me.”

“It’s not…” Arthur takes a deep breath. “It’s not about _trust_ , not this time. I can handle you if you get handsy.”

“You can?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says and suddenly there’s a wry smile lingering on the corner of his mouth. Eames bites his lip to stop himself from beaming like an idiot. Arthur’s better. Arthur’s going to be alright. And Arthur’s trying to be funny.

“Are you sure? You must know you’re tiny.”

“Eames,” Arthur says in an easy voice, “you know I’m better in self-defence than you.”

“Not better with guns, though.”

“Probably not. But you wouldn’t try to shoot me.”

“No,” Eames says, his tone a little too urgent, “ _no._ No one’s going to shoot you.”

“I’m not alright, though, am I?”

“You just got shot. You’ve been shot before.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says slowly, “yeah, that’s true. Eames?”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you getting out of this?”

Eames shifts a little closer. “What do you mean?”

“I got shot,” Arthur says carefully as if he’s considering it, “and you brought me here. You could’ve just taken me to a hospital.”

“I couldn’t. They would’ve arrested you. And I’ve been in a prison in Istanbul. It’s not nice.”

“I’m surprised you care.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, his voice very quiet now, “what is this? Why am I here? And why don’t I have any clothes?”

Eames clears his throat. “I guess I had to undress you.”

“You’re a fucking moron,” Arthur says.

“Yeah, alright,” Eames says, shifting still a little closer. His knee bumps against Arthur’s. “I need you to be safe.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the best point man in the business.”

Arthur smiles. “No. I mean, I am. But… no.”

“Because we’re friends, then.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, we are.”

“We like each other, though,” Arthur says. His knee is now pressing steadily against Eames’ thigh. “You’re annoying like hell and I like it. And you know that.”

“I don’t.”

“You must. Because you brought me here. You wouldn’t have if you didn’t think I like you.”

“I need to keep you safe,” Eames says. “I wouldn’t know how to go on without you.”

“I’m not dying,” Arthur says.

_Thank god._

“Of course not,” Eames says. _Hell_ , he’s so close to Arthur, and Arthur’s looking him straight in the eyes. He can’t bear it. He hasn’t looked anyone in the eyes from this close in _years_. Not like this, at least. “Are you hungry? Because I’m hungry. I should get us something to eat.”

“I always thought you were hot,” Arthur says.

“Fucking hell, Arthur, this is not the place –”

“This is exactly the place,” Arthur says, and he seems to have a point, because he’s in Eames’ bed, naked, and not even bleeding anymore. “Even in the beginning, when I kind of hated you, I thought you were hot. I imagined what it’d be like, you and me. I imagined how you’d fuck me. You’d fold me in half for it, but you’d _know_ I could throw you off any second, you’d know I’d be letting you do it. I’d be letting you.”

“I didn’t think it’d be like that,” Eames says. He has trouble breathing. Probably he shouldn’t have quit with the jogging.

“Yeah, you did,” Arthur says, smiling at him. “But you would’ve been gentle about it. You would’ve blown me afterwards. You would’ve kissed me all over. You would’ve kissed all the fucking bruises you would’ve just made. And you would’ve wanted to sleep with me, I mean, _sleep_ with me, in the bed, afterwards.”

“Yeah.”

“Eames, you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“It’s too late,” Arthur says and reaches to place his hand on the side of Eames’ face. His fingers are cold.

“No,” Eames says and gets out of the bed. He’s naked, too. That’s a little uncomfortable, but he doesn’t have time to care. “I’m going to get us something to eat. Just wait here.”

“Eames –”

“I told you to fucking wait here.”

He waits for Arthur to say something more but Arthur keeps quiet, and that’s worse. That’s like Arthur isn’t even there. But Eames can’t turn to look behind now, so he walks to the kitchen. The rooms are empty. He helped his mother to empty this house in the late 90’s. In the hallway he sees himself in the dusty mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. He looks old, too old for this, too old to stand here naked, too old to be so goddamn scared and helpless, too old to realise he might be in love with Arthur. The light is going out. The world behind the windows is fading away. Somewhere near is the sea, but he’s not going to dare to leave the house, not as long as he has Arthur in here. Maybe not ever.

But that’s fine. He blinks and turns away from the mirror. His ass still looks quite alright. It’s probably good that he hasn’t had it tattooed. The thought has crossed his mind a couple of times. But Arthur would surely laugh at him if he had a tattoo on his ass. Arthur would laugh at him. Oh, God, Arthur would laugh at him, climbing over him on the mattress, wrapping his long lean fingers around Eames’ thick wrists and pressing him down, down down down, and he wouldn’t ever get to leave. Arthur would lower himself down and kiss Eames -

“Eames?” Arthur’s voice echoes in empty rooms. He sounds impatient. “I thought you were getting us food.”

“Can’t you wait a goddamn second,” Eames answers and goes to the kitchen. There’s food in the fridge. The light is coming back but it’s wavering.

**

“We should leave,” Arthur says.

“We can’t,” Eames says. “You just got out of the bed.”

Arthur looks at him, frowning.

“You got shot after the job. In Istanbul.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, “oh, yeah. I did. But I’m alright now.”

“No, you aren’t,” Eames says. Arthur looks like he’s fine, sitting in his fancy suit in the armchair Eames’ mother bought in the late 80’s, a questionable combination of comfort and bad taste. It’s lovely to see Arthur sitting in it. Arthur’s buttoned his goddamn shirt all the way up, and Eames can’t help smiling when he thinks of that, thinks of Arthur being such a hopeless perfectionist in _everything._ It would’ve been impossible to live with Arthur.

_No._ They’re living right now. And it’s not impossible at all. It’s easy. He just has to make Arthur stay here.

“When you’ve recovered enough, I’ll get us out of here,” Eames promises.

“Really?” Arthur asks, even though he doesn’t have a reason to doubt Eames, does he?

“Yeah. Of course. Have I ever lied to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Eames says and clears his throat, “I’m not lying right now.”

“Eames,” Arthur says suddenly in a soft voice, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, “you don’t have to save me.”

“I just did,” Eames says. He wants to look away but can’t. It’s just too familiar, the way Arthur’s sitting right there, right across the room, so close he could walk to Arthur in a few steps and place his hands on Arthur’s shoulders to keep him there. He should’ve done that earlier.

“I never thought you’d want to be a hero.”

“I don’t. But I can’t –“

“You can’t lose me,” Arthur says too gently. “You _can_ , Eames.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“We’re staying here,” Eames says, leaning back in his chair. “This is the only safe place for you right now.”

“What if I begin to hate you?” Arthur asks, still softly.

“I don’t mind.”

Arthur’s laugh is short and sad.

“It’s not as bad,” Eames says, “not as bad as…”

“Letting me go.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

Arthur stares at him silently for a long time. He can feel his own heart beating. It feels wrong somehow. Everything about this feels wrong but not as wrong as the alternative.

“Okay,” Arthur says finally. “I won’t go anywhere. Can you make us coffee?”

“Yeah,” Eames says and stands up. “You aren’t going to try to run, are you?”

“No.”

He should trust Arthur.

“Really? Because I can’t lose you.”

“Really,” Arthur says.

Eames clears his throat, takes a step towards the kitchen and then stops. “Come with me.”

“To the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“Eames,” Arthur says in a sad, small voice, but stands up anyway. Eames grabs his elbow and then they go to the kitchen together, make the coffee together, lean against the counter together, waiting. It’s a silent day. Outside the moors are grey and green and the sun is a vague bright shape through the layers of mist. Arthur opens the top button of his shirt and stares back at Eames when Eames stares at him. “Tell me how you saved me,” Arthur says.

Eames wants to look away but can’t. “You’ve heard it.”

“Tell me,” Arthur says. “Tell me what happened in Istanbul. Tell me why I’m here.”

“You got shot. I brought you here, to keep you safe.”

“You said you carried me. In your arms.”

“You’re making it a bigger deal than it was.”

“I think it was a pretty big deal. Why did I fall off the building?”

Eames takes a long breath. The coffee isn’t half-way ready and he has nowhere to run, not if he doesn’t want to lose Arthur. He’s not sure where Arthur would go but he can’t take the risk. “We got double-crossed. Someone was waiting for us when we woke up from the dream. Five men with guns. We tried to get out. They shot Helen, I shot two, they shot you in the chest. You were close to the window. You fell through –“

“Eames,” Arthur says. Eames didn’t realise he had stopped talking.

“You fell down to the pavement,” Eames says. His voice is hollow as if he’s telling a story he’s heard a million times. “Three floors down.”

“People don’t survive that.”

“You did.”

“You carried me away,” Arthur says. “How did you get out of the building?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I think Naomi killed one of them,” Eames says, “it was chaos, I don’t know. I ran down the stairs and out to the street. You were… you were lying there. You looked… tiny. And a little broken. I lifted you up. You were breathing.”

“I was breathing.”

“Yes. _Yes._ I had your head on my shoulder. I was trying to… I was trying not to hurt you more. I was so careful. I carried you away from there and you were breathing, I could feel it on my neck.”

“Like this,” Arthur says and comes closer until their arms are brushing. Eames stays still. Everything has gone quiet. He can hear nothing but their breathing. Arthur leans closer, places his hand on Eames’ shoulder for balance, and breathes in a steady rhythm against Eames’ neck.

Eames realises vaguely that he might be crying a little.

“There’s no door in this house,” Arthur says, his breath tickling on Eames’ skin.

“Yes, there is.”

“No.”

“We came in. There’s a door.”

“Eames,” Arthur says and steps in between Eames’ legs. _God._ They’re almost the same height, he and Arthur, and he’s not sure who’s the small one anymore. He feels small. And Arthur looks like he pities Eames. It’s unbearable. “Eames,” Arthur says, not touching him, not doing anything except telling goddamn lies to his face, “there’s no door in this house.”

“Yes, there is.” It would be so easy to kiss Arthur now.

“No, there isn’t.”

“Kiss me,” Eames says. His voice is as broken as Arthur looked lying on the concrete. But Arthur’s going to hear him anyway. “Please, just fucking kiss me.”

Arthur just stares at him. “I need a door.”

He takes Arthur’s face in between his hands, gently, and kisses Arthur.

Arthur kicks him in the groin. “Eames, I need a _door._ ”

“There’s a door,” he says, grabbing Arthur’s shoulders and flipping them around so that Arthur’s back is pressed against the cupboard door. “ _Kiss me._ ”

“No unless you make me a door,” Arthur says. His hair is a mess. There’s blood in his mouth but just a little. He is breathing.

“There _is_ a door.”

“You’re lying,” Arthur says, “you’re lying to my face.”

“No, I’m not,” Eames says and pulls Arthur closer and then, when Arthur won’t kiss him, drops his hands and tries to unzip Arthur’s trousers.

Arthur hits him in the face and it all goes quiet.

**

He’s breathing.

They’re breathing.

He pries his eyes open. There’re shadows on the ceiling, so there must be light somewhere. When he looks around, he can see the table lamp his mother bought from the local flea market glowing on the side table. There’s dust in his mouth and his back aches, but when he rolls onto his side, he sees Arthur.

“Arthur.”

For a second he thinks Arthur’s not going to wake up this time, but Arthur does, _thank god_ , he blinks and then opens his eyes and looks at Eames. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eames says.

“We’re lying on the floor.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You hit me in the face,” Eames says, because Arthur will know when he tries to lie. He’d rather fight about this than about the other thing.

Arthur seems a little amused. “Why?”

“I tried to get my hand in your pants.”

“Eames, you’re an idiot,” Arthur says. “You should’ve asked.”

“I did ask.”

Arthur blinks and Eames realises his mistake. But it’s too late. Maybe it’s been too late all along. Maybe some people aren’t built to be happy.

“Why didn’t I let you get your hand in my pants?” Arthur asks in a confused voice. “I always thought you were hot.”

“I know, darling,” Eames says. “But it wasn’t that. I asked you to kiss me.”

“I think it would’ve made more sense,” Arthur says slowly, “if we had only fucked. We’re pretty bad with keeping things unbroken, you and me. We could’ve fucked and it would’ve been enough.”

“It would’ve never been enough.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think I didn’t do anything because nothing would’ve ever been enough. I would’ve wanted you for real. I would’ve wanted to have a life with you. It would’ve been brilliant. You would’ve been a pain in the ass, you goddamn maniac. What kind of an idiot takes notes of _weather?_ ”

“I didn’t think I could ever live a normal life,” Arthur says. “Some people retire from our line of business. But I couldn’t have. I was too young when I got pulled in. I never learned how to live differently.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t ask because I knew you wouldn’t –“

“But I had a thing for you, Eames. I had a fucking thing for you. And I couldn’t get rid of it.”

Eames shifts a little closer to Arthur on the floor. His shoulder aches. His heart fucking aches. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says in a quiet voice. “I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to get a hotel room and have sex with you and then eat breakfast together. But I didn’t think it could ever be more than fucking.”

“We should’ve tried.”

“We should have,” Arthur says. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not.”

“Why are you crying?” Arthur asks, reaching for him and running his fingers through Eames’ hair.

“I’m not crying.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, “why didn’t I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Just now. Why didn’t I kiss you when you asked?”

Eames swallows and swallows and swallows but can’t get rid of the words. “Because I wouldn’t make you a door.”

“You aren’t going to let me go.”

“No.”

“Eames,” Arthur says and crawls closer to him on the floor until they’re face to face, chest to chest, almost embracing. Eames wants to climb on Arthur and keep Arthur in place, but he can’t move. “Eames, if you want to get your hand in my pants, now would be a good time.”

“No,” Eames says, “we have plenty of time.”

“No, we don’t,” Arthur says, “we never had. We should’ve guessed that.”

“No one’s going to find us when we’re here. We have time.”

“You’re wrong,” Arthur says and kisses him.

Eames thinks about pushing him away and continuing the argument, because they _have_ time. They aren’t going to run out of it, not now that he finally has Arthur in his reach, looking at him as if he’s going to let Eames do anything. Not now when he finally has Arthur with all his buttons and habits and neuroses and all his brilliance. He should’ve had a lifetime to get to know Arthur and it wouldn’t have been enough. And now all he has is _this_ , Arthur lying on the floor next to him, and he’s not going to let Arthur go. They have time.

But he can’t make himself talk, because Arthur is unbuttoning his own shirt, and he can’t let Arthur do that. He pushes Arthur’s hands aside and replaces them with his own. Arthur’s buttons are goddamn small, like they’re made for tiny fingers. But Eames is patient. He’s going to be patient with Arthur and Arthur will never want to leave. There won’t be a door. He gets Arthur out of his clothes so slowly it’s probably breaking both of their brains but who cares, they are already broken, aren’t they? They are already broken. And finally Arthur is naked and reaching to undress Eames, and Eames waits with divine patience as Arthur gets him out of his clothes.

They should’ve done this differently.

They should’ve done this in a million different ways.

He kisses Arthur on the floor with his hands on Arthur’s neck and sides and arms and nowhere that counts, and when Arthur reaches for his cock, he slaps Arthur’s hand away. Not yet. They have time. And Arthur sighs and lets him do this his way. Arthur lets him kiss everywhere. They’re both cold but he can’t bother to move them, he doesn’t dare, so he kisses Arthur on the carpet that’s too coarse for this, and far too coarse for what he does next.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he tells Arthur, and Arthur laughs.

The rain is hitting the windows and the light is going out.

When he lifted Arthur’s body up from the pavement, he realised he was crying. It felt like he was going to choke on the tears.

“You’re crying,” Arthur tells him now, hands on the side of his face. “Stop it. I’m here.”

“No, you aren’t,” he says and wraps his fingers around Arthur’s cock.

Arthur shuts up.

He knew for a long time that he wanted Arthur. And he was going to do something about it. He really was. But it wasn’t the right time.

Now he fucks Arthur who’s lying on his back, and the carpet must be hurting Arthur, and Eames must be hurting him, too, but he doesn’t say anything, only holds onto Eames as Eames grabs his waist tighter and pushes in as deep as he can. He’s never going to let Arthur go. There’s not going to be him without Arthur.

“Eames,” Arthur says in a broken voice, “come on.”

“No.”

“You can come,” Arthur says. “I’ll wait for you.”

“No,” Eames says and stops, lowers himself as far down as he can without slipping free from Arthur. Maybe if he never blinks, Arthur will never disappear.

“Come,” Arthur says, “and blow me afterwards. You would’ve done that.”

“Yeah.”

“The best fuck in my fucking life,” Arthur says in the goddamn soft voice he shouldn’t be using, the bastard’s only using it to make Eames cry, and it’s working. “And more. You might’ve loved me.”

“Yeah,” Eames says, only crying is getting worse. “I did. I do.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Arthur says, “but we could’ve figured it out. Come on, Eames, I want you to fuck me.”

“I can’t live without you.”

“Yes, you can,” Arthur says in his most irritating, bossiest voice. Eames always hated that, hated so much he wanted to grab Arthur’s shoulders and push him against the wall and tug his pants to his knees. And maybe drop onto his knees and blow Arthur. So, that’s what he’s going to do. “Come on,” Arthur says, and Eames fucks him until it’s all over, until he’s empty and hollow and lonelier than ever and there’s cum dripping from Arthur’s ass and onto the carpet, and the rain is getting so heavy that maybe the window glass is going to shatter. “Come on,” Arthur says, and Eames gets onto his knees and keeps Arthur’s thighs pressed against the floors when he sucks Arthur the best he can. Arthur’s bossy about that, too. Arthur keeps giving him instructions and he thinks about biting Arthur, just a little, just to make the fucker shut up, but then he’s crying again, and Arthur comes in his mouth and then lies there, sweaty and breathing and alive.

“You’re the only person I could never have got bored of,” Eames says and settles next to Arthur, kisses Arthur’s neck and the side of his face and then his mouth, and Arthur tries to push him away because he tastes of cum, but Eames is stronger and now he’s going to use it. He kisses Arthur again.

“Eames,” Arthur says, “make me a door.”

“I can’t let you go,” Eames says.

“I’m already gone,” Arthur says.

**

Eames opens the door, and there’s nothing outside, not moors, not dust, not rain, just grey emptiness like the static screen on television when he was a kid.

“Tell me,” Arthur says, “when you lifted me up from the concrete, did you know?”

“Yes,” Eames says.

“You said I was breathing.”

“I don’t know anymore,” Eames says. His ears are ringing. His hands are shaking. He can’t say it, but he’s going to. “But they had shot you in the heart.”

“Oh,” Arthur says.

“And the way you fell,” Eames says, and that’s it, he can’t say more.

“So,” Arthur says, one hand resting on Eames’ shoulder, the other checking the gun on his belt. As if he’s going to need it. “So, where are you?”

“Still in Istanbul,” Eames says. “In a hotel room.”

Arthur frowns. “That’s dangerous. You should’ve gone out of the city. Out of the country, preferably.”

“I couldn’t leave you.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, “I’m dead.”

“I just couldn’t.”

“You reckless idiot,” Arthur says, “the next thing you’re going to do is that you’re going to wake up and get your stupid ass out of Turkey. And then, when you’re sure they aren’t following you, you can do whatever you want. You can build another dream and fuck me again if you want to. Or bury me and have a funeral. Or go to see Cobb. He always knew I liked you more than I admitted. I don’t care. As long as you’re alive.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, but there’s nothing more he can say. There’s nothing he can do to keep Arthur with him.

“You’re going to be alright,” Arthur says, leans forward and kisses him. “It’s going to be hell but you’re going to be alright in the end.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I say so.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, “don’t go. Don’t fucking leave me. We could’ve been happy.”

“Yes, we could have,” Arthur says and steps through the door.


End file.
